I went to meet my Mum and Dad of the at the airport. They were flying back from a long globe hopping trip. I'd missed being able to call them round to help me with DIY or nip down the road to their house for tea. The crackling disjointed telephone conversations about our respective weather had been no replacement for seeing them. So I stood at the arrivals gate, sign with "Mum and Dad" written on it clutched in my hands, surplus to requirements but a funny touch. The flow of people began, like tadpoles set free from a jar. They came, pulling big wheeled cases. All tanned and travel worn. Dad came out as the trickle of people began to dry up muttering something about his case getting stuck in the carousel. His grey hair whitened by the sun and startling against the new brown of his skin. I looked on, expectantly, waiting for Mum. Dad rolled his case off across the foyer. I thought maybe they had had one of their arguments. As he reached the door he shouted back, "I sold your Mum for £30.00 and 2 camels".
That is the story which Dad tells to this day. We never saw the £30.00 or the 2 camels.
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